


Watch the Rising Sun

by rapacityinblue



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-05
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapacityinblue/pseuds/rapacityinblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Denzel forces Reeve to think about the things he'd really rather avoid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch the Rising Sun

Mornings in Edge are warm.

It seems fitting Edge has been built of the City of Lights; more of Midgar remains in the new location than anyone admits. Residents, covered by a thin sheen of sweat, move through their daily routine in recycled buildings, and no one mentions the extreme change in temperature that awaits anyone who strays east of Central Plaza. Rain, when it falls, coats their lives in a thick black film. Residue washed from the air.

Reeve remembers not to curse it because some people in the city had never felt rain against their arms.

Denzel.

He'd met with the boy at Tifa's request and listened to every verbal dagger the boy had driven into him, and then he'd left – left Johnny's, left Edge. There were those who would always know where to find him, and Cait manned a doll in the office, his basic programming prepared to handle any situation that arose. _Everything I am is ultimately replaceable by a toy cat._

He lets the dirt sift through his fingers as he rises from his knee, the fabric he wears too dark to show stains. Dirt marks his cuticles and lodges under his nails; he regards his hands with almost-shock. How long since they'd touched dirt – or oil, or ink? There had been a time his fingers were perpetually filthy. Now he cannot remember where the calluses had been.

He dislodges a seed and lets it rest in his palm, turning it over with his thumb. A a child he'd spent countless hours here, beheading flowers and shaking seeds free of their pods, setting them in plain cotton bags to dry and then wrapping them in paper twists. There had been a time when he'd spoken an entire language of color, and he could still see those twists so clearly. Blue had been baby's breath, he was sure.

Denzel had told him the garden was empty before Meteor and Holy, that Ruvi had planned on planting soon. He'd heard, when he'd forced himself to ask, that she hadn't planted since Sector Seven.

He takes a seat on the crumbling edge of the plate. False dawn gives little light, but he needs less to see the destruction wreaked during Meteor – and before. Beyond the rubble, he envisions the houses that have sprouted from the wreckage of the city, now a city in their own right. Stark against the polluted skyline. How many Denzels in those houses are already awake, and looking west?

 _I gave the order to evacuate to the slums._ It is a strange thought, when confronted with _my mother never made it out._

 _I let them murder his parents_ and _I never was a very good son._

The basket arrives at Tifa's door in under three days, just as Strife's Delivery Service promises. She roots through twists of colored paper, looking for something more, before she realizes that this is all there is. A tiny note has been tied with yarn to one handle. _Plant them._

She sends the girl at her side to fetch the other child inside the house, gently and expertly smothering any objections Marlene might have. “Tell Denzel it's for him.”


End file.
